August. Hot, humid air filled with cicada song trapped under a thick canopy of vibrant greenery. Clusters of long, broad hickory leaves overhead add to the feeling of standing in a tropical rainforest- as if sweating at dawn wasn’t enough. And yet I’m reminded of October- its cool mornings, when the green has faded to brown and gold, cicada song is traded for blue jays, and hickory trees traded for white oaks as my focus.
The connection? Squirrels. Or more specifically, squirrel hunting with this exact shotgun in my hands. A small .410/.22 combination gun, it belonged to my grandpa some 25 years ago, when we would squirrel hunt with it every fall, years before anyone in the family thought of chasing deer. It meant crisp mornings, brown and gold leaves, and squirrels treating a small grove of white oaks like a Chuck E. Cheese.
But not today. It’s hot. I’ve staked out a pignut hickory on a hillside. The other types of hickory lost all their nuts in April, victims of an unusually late frost. But the smaller, more bitter pignuts seem to have fared better. The freshly chewed scraps of nuts scattered under the tree tell me that the nuts are ripe, and the squirrels have found it- all I have to do is wait. But after 30 minutes of stillness and silence in the treetops, it’s time to move on.
I keep walking through the woods, looking for some kind of sign- a branch to jump, chattering, the cat-like calls, or the sound of teeth scraping on a nut. Two hundred yards later, I finally hear it- that cat-like cry. I slip into the woods, circling the cries to try pin-pointing its location. My eyes lock onto another pignut tree, slightly larger than the rest around it, and I stop to watch from about 40 yards away.
A branch shakes high overhead, near the very top of the tree. The leaves are thick enough I can't see what made it, but I knew it would be a squirrel. I'm too far to shoot with the little .410 and it's improved cylinder choke, so I take the opportunity to creep in closer. I don't have long, as the squirrel will be coming back down the tree with a nut soon, looking for a more stable spot to perch and chew through the thick husk on the nut. It seems they don't like to litter in the outer limbs- maybe they want a thicker branch as a more stable platform, maybe they don't like the swaying, or maybe it's to better avoid the red-tailed hawks I've been seeing here and there this morning. For whatever reason, their habit brings them closer to the earth and into range.
I reach a small oak tree and stop, just in time to see a flash of orange and gray fur streaking down the limb. A big fox squirrel, heading right for the fork in the trunk, 20 yards away. He stops, sits back on his haunches with his tail thrown up like a sunshade, and digs into the hickory. I @#)(# the hammer, raise the gun, and fire- the squirrel falls to the ground, hitting a few small branches, and lands with a thud. My first squirrel in probably 5 years, and probably the only fox squirrel I'll take this year- their numbers haven't done as well as gray squirrels, and I like to take it easy on them. And if it’s the only one I’m going to take, this was a good one- a younger male that will taste good but large enough to make a meal.
I spend another 20 minutes at this tree, but to no avail. One squirrel isn't exactly a great morning, but it's enough to make me happy. It took entirely too long to get out of the house this morning, and it's already later than I'd like. The sweat is flowing well, and my pants are covered in hundreds of seed ticks- if not thousands. Even with permethrin, that's enough to send me packing, and turn to head back. But the first pignut I staked out was on the way back, so it's at least worth another look.
I walk a trail through the woods, keeping my eyes peeled, but don't notice anything else. Back at the first pignut, things are quiet, and getting hotter by the minute. Time passes, and I’ve had enough. I bend down to pick up my lone squirrel, and take one final look around. A limb shakes about 80 yards away- a squirrel. Instead of running over to it, crashing through the underbrush like I would as a teenager, I hold tight. Sure enough, it's a gray squirrel heading straight for the tree I'm sitting under. It bounds from tree to tree, finally reaching the branches filled with hickory nuts. It grabs one, hops down towards the trunk, and falls at the sound of the shotgun. Two squirrels.
I walk over and pick it up, taking a moment to inspect each leg- only one broken. Not terrible given the shot. I walk back to where I laid the first squirrel, and wait another 5 minutes. Sure enough, another gray squirrel is following the same path as the first. Tree to tree, grabs a nut, down towards the trunk, and he... runs? I missed? I'm not supposed to miss! It's a shotgun at a sitting squirrel!
My hand dives into my pocket for another shell, and the squirrel makes for another tree. Break the barrel open, swap the shell, close the action and @#)(# the hammer. The squirrel has stopped, hugging a limb, hoping to be invisible. I can't tell if I'm staring at his head or tail- maybe it's time for another eye exam. Then the tree sways in the breeze, and I get just enough of a different angle to see a head. Gun up, squirrel down- 3 in the bag. And that's all I want to clean. Time to get on with the day.
It’s going to be a great fall.
The connection? Squirrels. Or more specifically, squirrel hunting with this exact shotgun in my hands. A small .410/.22 combination gun, it belonged to my grandpa some 25 years ago, when we would squirrel hunt with it every fall, years before anyone in the family thought of chasing deer. It meant crisp mornings, brown and gold leaves, and squirrels treating a small grove of white oaks like a Chuck E. Cheese.
But not today. It’s hot. I’ve staked out a pignut hickory on a hillside. The other types of hickory lost all their nuts in April, victims of an unusually late frost. But the smaller, more bitter pignuts seem to have fared better. The freshly chewed scraps of nuts scattered under the tree tell me that the nuts are ripe, and the squirrels have found it- all I have to do is wait. But after 30 minutes of stillness and silence in the treetops, it’s time to move on.
I keep walking through the woods, looking for some kind of sign- a branch to jump, chattering, the cat-like calls, or the sound of teeth scraping on a nut. Two hundred yards later, I finally hear it- that cat-like cry. I slip into the woods, circling the cries to try pin-pointing its location. My eyes lock onto another pignut tree, slightly larger than the rest around it, and I stop to watch from about 40 yards away.
A branch shakes high overhead, near the very top of the tree. The leaves are thick enough I can't see what made it, but I knew it would be a squirrel. I'm too far to shoot with the little .410 and it's improved cylinder choke, so I take the opportunity to creep in closer. I don't have long, as the squirrel will be coming back down the tree with a nut soon, looking for a more stable spot to perch and chew through the thick husk on the nut. It seems they don't like to litter in the outer limbs- maybe they want a thicker branch as a more stable platform, maybe they don't like the swaying, or maybe it's to better avoid the red-tailed hawks I've been seeing here and there this morning. For whatever reason, their habit brings them closer to the earth and into range.
I reach a small oak tree and stop, just in time to see a flash of orange and gray fur streaking down the limb. A big fox squirrel, heading right for the fork in the trunk, 20 yards away. He stops, sits back on his haunches with his tail thrown up like a sunshade, and digs into the hickory. I @#)(# the hammer, raise the gun, and fire- the squirrel falls to the ground, hitting a few small branches, and lands with a thud. My first squirrel in probably 5 years, and probably the only fox squirrel I'll take this year- their numbers haven't done as well as gray squirrels, and I like to take it easy on them. And if it’s the only one I’m going to take, this was a good one- a younger male that will taste good but large enough to make a meal.
I spend another 20 minutes at this tree, but to no avail. One squirrel isn't exactly a great morning, but it's enough to make me happy. It took entirely too long to get out of the house this morning, and it's already later than I'd like. The sweat is flowing well, and my pants are covered in hundreds of seed ticks- if not thousands. Even with permethrin, that's enough to send me packing, and turn to head back. But the first pignut I staked out was on the way back, so it's at least worth another look.
I walk a trail through the woods, keeping my eyes peeled, but don't notice anything else. Back at the first pignut, things are quiet, and getting hotter by the minute. Time passes, and I’ve had enough. I bend down to pick up my lone squirrel, and take one final look around. A limb shakes about 80 yards away- a squirrel. Instead of running over to it, crashing through the underbrush like I would as a teenager, I hold tight. Sure enough, it's a gray squirrel heading straight for the tree I'm sitting under. It bounds from tree to tree, finally reaching the branches filled with hickory nuts. It grabs one, hops down towards the trunk, and falls at the sound of the shotgun. Two squirrels.
I walk over and pick it up, taking a moment to inspect each leg- only one broken. Not terrible given the shot. I walk back to where I laid the first squirrel, and wait another 5 minutes. Sure enough, another gray squirrel is following the same path as the first. Tree to tree, grabs a nut, down towards the trunk, and he... runs? I missed? I'm not supposed to miss! It's a shotgun at a sitting squirrel!
My hand dives into my pocket for another shell, and the squirrel makes for another tree. Break the barrel open, swap the shell, close the action and @#)(# the hammer. The squirrel has stopped, hugging a limb, hoping to be invisible. I can't tell if I'm staring at his head or tail- maybe it's time for another eye exam. Then the tree sways in the breeze, and I get just enough of a different angle to see a head. Gun up, squirrel down- 3 in the bag. And that's all I want to clean. Time to get on with the day.
It’s going to be a great fall.
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